' A quare mad crathur was Dick, an' would
go forty miles for a fight. Poor fellow, he got his skull broke in a
scrimmage betwixt the Redmonds and the O'Hanlons; an' his last words
were, 'Bad luck to you, Redmond--O'Hanlon, I never thought you, above
all men dead and gone, would be the death o' me.' Poor fellow! he was
for pacifyin' them, for a wondher, but instead o' that he got pacified
himself."
"An' how is young Con doin', Frank?"
"Hut, divil a much time he has to do aither well or ill, yit. There was
four tenants on Tubber Derg since you left it, an' he's the fifth. It's
hard to say how he'll do; but I believe he's the best o' thim, for so
far. That may be owin' to the landlord. The rent's let down to him; an'
I think he'll be able to take bread, an' good bread too, out of it."
"God send, poor man!"
"Now, Owen, would you like to go back to it?"
"I can't say that. I love the place, but I suffered too much in it. No;
but I'll tell you, Frank, if there was e'er a snug farm near it that I
could get rasonable, I'd take it."
Frank slapped his knee exultingly. "Ma chuirp!--do you say so, Owen?"
"Indeed, I do."
"Thin upon my song, thats the luckiest thing I ever knew. There's, this
blessed minute, a farm o' sixteen acres, that the Lacys is lavin'--goin'
to America--an' it's to be set. They'll go the week afther next, an'
the house needn't be cowld, for you can come to it the very day afther
they Live it.
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